Disclaimer: I do not own Guild Wars, Arenanet, or anything of the like. However, though I don't know how one may claim to 'own' a character or personality, I claim ownership to the characters' personalities.

Twilight of the Ideals

Morton's dark voice spilled forth from some unseen cranny, "Thirty degrees, west-north-west."

Tor dutifully swiveled the catapult, and pulled the level twice: once forward, once back. The catapult glowed a deep, flame red before it fired its magic into a moving Charr warband.

Sermo stood at the edge of the cliff, watching the battles below. He leaned forward on his cane, and, pleasantly detached from the commotion below, mentally noted where the red-armored Ascalon Army was succeeding, and where its soldiers were being ground into only so much useless meat. But there was also some pride in his party's use of the catapult: Morton's talent with geometry – an odd skill for any caster, let alone a Necromancer – was surprisingly useful to that end.

"Lower the incline by three degrees," came Morton's voice. Tor subconsciously trusted the reasoning behind this command, and did not bother to question it. He pulled the lever once, and was about to do so again when the sound of a trumpet ground through the air. The Warrior paused, waiting to see what would happen, and then pulled the lever again.

"That's Rurik's guard," Sermo called out to Morton. "Can you see him?"

The Mesmer heard Morton cry something, but that was drowned out by another trumpet call; this time the sound was dampened by distance. Another moment passed, and its third call signaled that it was even further away.

Morton tried again once he felt the trumpet was distant enough, "There's a large group of soldiers moving through the canyons. I could not tell whether Rurik was with them or not." Then, "Fire again." His deep voice moved through the air like the north wind.

Sermo nodded to himself, and turned back to watch the battle. So the Prince was off to battle; the Mesmer began contemplating all the different implications of this act, and so was surprised when he heard the Prince's voice from behind him, "Lord Malum, a word, if you will."

Sermo spun around, and walked towards Rurik. "My Prince," he muttered, and then gave a quick bow, "how can I be of service?"

Rurik smiled, though it could barely be seen through his coarse black beard, and the dark bronze of his helmet. "I've just sent a group, including a soldier masquerading as myself, to the northeast." His tone was brusque and businesslike, almost like his father's when the old King spoke of warfare. "My hope is that it will draw enough of the Charr forces to the east, so that we'll be able to break through the western line, and do some damage thereabouts."

Sermo gave a knowing smile, which belied the dread which was now comfortably at home in his stomach, and said, "and you're looking for experienced, trustworthy," he placed a touch too much emphasis on this last word for it to be misconstrued. This kind of verbal parlay was becoming more and more common in Sermo's life; while he did not despise subterfuge, he found it annoying that he was being forced, more and more, to rely on it, "men to assist you in this endeavor."

Rurik nodded, his hidden smile returning to his grizzled face, "I'm glad we understand each other. Are your men ready to move out?"

Sermo answered without even glancing back at Tor and the hidden Necromancer, "Whenever you are ready, my liege."

Aegwynn knelt on the cage's dusty floor, looking less like she wanted to pray, but as if she could not bear to stand up. A few naked rays of light managed to slip into the cage, which did little to alleviate the general darkness. Instead, the light served to illuminated Gwynn's red eyes, tired and swollen from holding in so many tears.

She tried to make conversation in order to keep down the sobs she had been repressing for the last few hours, "How long have you been here?"

Asperia closed her eyes and sighed, though this gesture was unseen in the cage's darkness. She desperately wanted to sleep, but the presence of this newcomer demanded her attention: if she would not give kindness, no one else would. The other Mages were too bitter – or too broken – to offer anything but scorn.

"Almost two years now. I was captured a month after the crystals fell from the skies." Her voice was tired and distracted. She sounded much the way that ill people do when they try to converse.

Gwynn didn't miss a beat, "And what were you before?"

Asperia responded with the same lack of concentration, "I was a noblewoman. An Elementalist trainee, too. Water magic was considered a womanly art, back then." She gave a short burst of laughter; it sounded as if she were coughing.

"And you were captured in some battle?"

She took a deep breath, though this was more of a stifled yawn than an attempt to summon some reserves of courage. Asperia knew what had happened was traumatic, and horrible, and all manner of other negative adjectives. But she plowed right through it with all the plodding inexorability of a glacier. It was all she knew how to do. "No. The Charr had lain siege to the academy at Drascir. They were eventually allowed entry by a traitor, who had hoped that he would be spared. Those who they did not kill, they carried away as slaves."

Several minutes of silence passed. Then, though she knew it was a stupid question, Gwynn asked, "Yourself included?" She knew it was a foolish question, but she had to ask anyway, if only to fill the silence.

Asperia had almost fallen asleep. She grunted, signaling the affirmative. Before Gwynn could as another question, she summoned up the energy to be blunt, "I know you're still in shock, but it would be best if you went to sleep now. They'll rouse us at dusk, and keep us at work until dawn. It would be best if you just went to bed." Her voice came quickly, as if she wanted to say her piece, and be done with everything.

Still feeling pangs of trepidation, Gwynn sought to carry on the conversation, "But how shall I sleep?" Again she cursed herself for how naïve this remark made her seem. But she was comforted by the sound of the older woman's voice, if not by its content.

"It's warm enough during the day so that you have no need for a blanket. As for a pillow, well, use your arms, or your shirt." The Elementalist spoke without opening her eyes.

Gwyn was flabbergasted by this suggestion. "But – amongst men, I…" her voice broke as she realized the hypocrisy in this sudden sense of propriety.

Fortunately for her, Asperia was too tired to notice it, "Whatever you wish, then. Sleep well." Then she drifted off.

Realizing that she would get no response, Gwynn lay down on the warm earth. She turned herself so her back faced the bars of the cage, and averted her face from the sun. She found that she was more tired than she realized, and soon followed Asperia in – temporarily – traveling away from the ruined world she found herself in.

Rurik, Sermo, Tor, Morton, and two bodyguards managed to break through the Charr's line without any undue harm. Rurik and his two bodyguards, supported by Tor, managed to decapitate, impale, or otherwise butcher any Charr they encountered on the field. Sermo, his skills less useful in a grand mêlée than in simple combat, merely skittered along with the group, wary of any harm that might befall him. And Morton was busy raising the bodies of each Charr slain. In a relatively short period of time the party was accompanied by eight hulking Charr cadavers, each in relatively good condition, with no missing limbs.

Once behind enemy lines, the party managed to avoid all incoming Charr warbands. Once they were forced to hide in the grand shadow of the wall while one Charr with a particularly keen sense of smell paused and rooted around in the dirt and rocks, before being beckoned to join the distant battle by his fellows. Another time the party had to throw their weapons behind a dune, before assuming the role of prisoners, being escorted by eight noble Charr warriors. There were a few agonizingly tense moments when a large warband passed seemingly close enough to see the mortal wounds that marked the torsos and, in one case, neck, of Morton's reanimated corpses. When they were left alone, all breathed a sigh of relief, and Rurik congratulated Morton's handiwork. The Necromancer gave a terse nod, recovering as he was from a severe pang of necrophobia.

It was late in the afternoon, closer to the evening, when the party stumbled upon a dry, dusty basin. A thin stream of tar slowly rolled through the Charr camp built there, and disappeared down several deep, thin crags. The entirety of the warcamp was cast in shadow due to its depression, and different grotesque totems, made of human bone and leather, served to accent its already gloomy atmosphere. Sermo and Rurik were crouched up near the top of the ridge, behind a pale red boulder.

"It's only a small warcamp, thinly populated," Sermo muttered to Rurik, "it would be a trifle to simply go around."

Rurik knelt with one knee flat against the ground, with the other foot firmly planted into the red soil. Taller than Sermo, he had an easier time of peering over the boulder's edge, while looking rather regal at the same time. "No," he said.

"Beg your pardon," and then, as an after-thought, "Lord?"

"Do you see those huts, at the northern most edge?" Rurik turned his head to gauge Sermo's reaction. When he saw a nod, he continued, "It's in typical Charr design for a cage. They've captured Ascalons, and are using them as slaves."

Sermo's face went blank, but only for a heartbeat. "The camp is manned by at least two dozen Charr. It might be more prudent to find an easier victory farther north." There was an awkward silence, which informed Sermo that he might have made a mistake in voicing such an opinion. He sought to qualify it, "We may have had a chance if the Necromancer's minions were here, but they were reduced to ash and bone several miles ago."

Rurik looked surprised at the Mesmer's cruel pragmatism. "Lord Malum," he said coldly, "it is our duty to rescue whoever may be enslaved by these beasts." He turned back to face the enemy warcamp. "Besides, it would be a blow, however small, to the Charr war effort."

Acutely aware that he had earned his would-be benefactor's ire, Sermo was quick to offer reparations, "You're right. I apologize for my selfishness," he said, convincingly. He lapsed into silence for half a minute as he thought, and then spoke up, "I believe Morton may be able to help us with a strategem, however." He slipped away towards where the others were camped. Rurik stared after him in a distrustful silence: the more he saw of this Lord Malum, the more he disliked him.

After consulting privately with Morton, and then Tor, Sermo explained the plan to the whole party. It was a simple affair, but wholly dependant on enough Charr being gathered in a close enough spot. Upon hearing it, all of Rurik's doubts concerning Sermo faded away, and he offered the Mesmer a congratulory handshake.

"Don't thank me until we've freed the slaves, my liege," said Sermo, somewhat ruefully.

Tor, Rurik, and the two bodyguards leapt over edge leading down to the basin, howling bloody murder. They were bunched up close together; so close that Tor repeatedly knocked into one of the bodyguards as he slid and scuttled down the rocks and pebbles that pocketed the slope.

The Charr camp was roused almost immediately. Warriors began charging up the depression to meet the paltry four foes invading their camp. Those at the northern edge of the camp began racing to get to their enemies before those at the southern edge could. It was a chilling sight: close to twenty brown, black, and orange coated Charr, each covered in glinting steel, and armed with serrated blades and axes, all running – some on two legs, others on four – to be the first to kill the invaders.

Sermo stood at the lip of the basin, a safe distance away from the invaders. Morton crouched at the edge, seemingly apathetic as to the sortie's outcome. Both were a respectable distance away from the Charr, ensuring that they could both escape if the battle went south.

Then the Mesmer cried out, "Now! Tor!"

Immediately the warrior responded. Just before the Charr were in reach of their blades, the Warrior grabbed one of the bodyguards by the head and held it back, revealing the gap between the helmet and breastplate. Tor then stabbed his sword through the guard's throat, and dropped the body. He then took several steps back, and watched.

Rurik was aghast, and howled, "You traitor!" He was then forced to look ahead, and parry three different blows from three separate Charr.

Almost whimsically, Morton chanted out a long string of discordant words, and snapped his fingers. As if watching a dull battle in the Ascalon Arena, he then leaned back, winded, and watched.

The guard's corpse exploded in a shower of green-gray ethereal light. Then long wisps of power slowly expanded from where the body had lain, and defined themselves. When they had assumed the shape of transparent green-gray tentacles, they lashed out with all the fury of death scorned, entwining about the closest Charr warriors. More than a dozen found themselves held by this dark power, unable to move. Two more were caught as they entered the well's radius, and all slowly began to feel tired.

Rurik and the remaining bodyguard dropped to the earth. They were not targeted by the well's magic, but they still felt the disconcerting and frigid hand of death grasp about their insides. Out of sheer terror, the bodyguard managed to find the gall to stand up, and run. He passed out of the well's range, and collapsed.

Tor simply walked around the eldritch circle, and proceeded to attack the remaining Charr, held in dark rapture by what was happening to their comrades. Two were slain, and one was badly injured before they realized what was happening.

The Charr held inside the well began to feel as if they had finished a day's battle in only a few seconds. Then, with growing terror, one realized that his pelt was fading to an ashen grey. Others began to bark their fear as they watched their fur grow darker, less dense, and lose its luster. They all recognized what was happening: they had seen it happen – though at a far slower pace – to their elders and fathers. They were aging years in a manner of seconds.

Then the oldest, a warrior whose fur had been dyed orange to mark his prowess, went limp in a tentacle's grip. The orange of his fur could be barely noticed amidst the rapid darkening, and then decaying of his flesh. An arm dropped off, and then faded to dust before it touched the ground. As the youngest were given a prequel to what they would eventually undergo, they found more of an urge to struggle. In a show of cruel irony, however, they no longer had the strength.

The well faded just before the last Charr, who had just been sent down from the Homelands, would have died. The arcane tentacles simply faded into thin air with an almost disappointing lack of ceremony, and he fell to the earth, tired and aching. As testament to his courage, and to his rage, he staggered to his feet, weakly grasped his sword, and raised it above his head, hoping to strike down the only human within reach: Prince Rurik.

The sword wavered in midair, as the Charr found it hard to hold his hand steady. He raged at his lost youth, and at the lack of heroism in his death; the experience he lacked, and the life he had been prevented from living. He embodied all the tragedies of warfare, presented in a new and novel package. He hoped to find some satisfaction in his first kill, at the very least.

Then the blade clattered uselessly to the ground as his body was engulfed in purple flames. The unfortunate Charr fell backwards, and slide a few feet before he was caught by a prominent boulder. He did not stand up.

By now Tor had slain every other Charr stationed in the warcamp. His enemies had been on edge, and trepidatious, distracted by the display of necromancy that had slain so many Warriors. It had been easy pickings: if Tor had truly cared, he would have been disappointed at the meager showing. He shouted, "The camp is clear," to Sermo, who nodded in response.

The Mesmer walked down to assist his Prince, "My Lord, are you all right?" he asked, proffering his hand in a show of assistance.

It was batted away, and Rurik leapt to his feet, suddenly endowed with rage that turned his face red. "You planned that murder!" he shouted, gesturing towards the dark smear that marked where the bodyguard had lain. "You told your puppet to kill him, so he," here he gestured to the gaunt form of Morton, who was leaning back on a rock, recuperating from this expression of power, "could use him!"

Sermo saw no way out of this, and so he dropped whatever pretensions he may have held in front of the Prince. "It was the easiest way to clear the camp, and it featured a minimal loss of casualties. I did what I thought prudent."

"You had a man, a fellow Ascalon, killed in cold blood!"

"One life, in exchange for those held hostage inside those cages. It seems like a good rate of exchange." Sermo matched Rurik's righteous fire with his own natural frigidity.

"You bastard!" Rurik spat. "When this is through, I'll have you martialed for murder! For treason!"

"You wouldn't dare, Rurik." The Mesmer planted his cane in the earth, and leaned on it. "You have few enough patrons amongst the aristocracy, and the army, as it is. Certainly, the people love you. But you'll find the third estate ultimately has little power in a monarchy." Sermo began twirling his cane about in an uncaring fashion. "You need me, much as I need you." He began walking past the Prince, down into the camp. "It would do you good to abandon your idealism. Realpolitik is what makes a good King. Not virtue."

Confident that he had put the Prince in his place, Sermo joined Tor at the northern edge of the camp. He stared at the bone cages for a moment, and then ordered the Warrior to break them open.

With one powerful kick, Tor shattered the bone fastened to the lock, and the door swung open. Light, however dull, swept inside, illuminating the wretched inhabitants.

"Wake up, all of you," shouted Sermo. "We've got to get gone before sunset…" his voice trailed off as he recognized one of the prisoners, slowly awakening, and guarding her eyes against the light.

"Interesting," he muttered to himself, as he mentally confirmed that it was indeed Aegwynn he saw.

Apologise for the long absence, but there's a semi-good reason, if you keep reading onwards. This instance's chapter title is a corruption of a philosophical work. Any guesses as to which character it applies to? Anyone?

t.z0n3
They'll be fine. Sort of. No character is ever really 'fine', but so far as they can be, they will be.

Almostinsane:
Thanks, glad someone's enjoying all this.

Diaz Rivaut:Now, when I read that, I wasn't sure on how to take it: as a compliment, or as a criticism? I am sure you meant it as the former, but it gave me pause for thought. Writing, as like any medium, has its limitations. But the written word also has the ability to go where no film ever could. My main criticism of recent science-fiction and fantasy books are that they do read like a movie. What I enjoy reading are those written around the time of Frank Herbert, or Tolkien. There I find a particular eloquence that modern books lack - think of the different between Dune, and his son's bland regurgitations thereof. I've been trying to go for that eloquence, which is why this chapter took so long. I've started to reread those works in the hopes I'll see just how they're able to do it. Hopefully you'll all see a shift, however small, in my diction. Mar asalahma.

lowcal:
Yes, she was. You'll see why and how her disposition changed as the story goes on.

Hopefully the next update will arrive sooner. But we'll see. I'm glad I'm almost through ('bout half-way) with the Ruins of Ascalon.